


green light

by pleasert



Series: green light (verse) [1]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Cigarettes, Drag, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Identity, Greenwich Village, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Meet-Cute, New York City, Past Sexual Assault, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Queer Culture, Speakeasies, Strangers to Lovers, drag artist!brian, patrick's special scathing brand of self doubt, photographer!pat, queer imposter syndrome, queer night life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-25 06:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasert/pseuds/pleasert
Summary: “Like a… like a drag queen, then?” Pat asks, feeling like his breath is caught in his throat.Brian pauses. “Not exactly. But you’ll see.” He winks at Pat confidently, and Pat’s heart is racing, trying to imagine the environment he’s going to be in. “Is that going to be a problem for you?” Brian asks, cautiously.This is the out that Brian is giving him. And Pat knows he could take it. He could politely shrug off the job, head home. It’s a nice pay, but firmly outside of his comfort zone. So he should take it. Walk out.In 1920s Manhattan, Pat is a freelance photographer and Brian is a queer performer. Brian hires Pat out of the blue and who is Pat to say no to field work, even if it does involve delving into the strangest night life he’s ever experienced, and hoping to God that it doesn’t awaken anything in him to see men around him wearing scandalously short dresses and skirts and beads and makeup and rouge.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Series: green light (verse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557463
Comments: 20
Kudos: 88





	1. did it frighten you how we kissed when we danced on the light up floor?

**Author's Note:**

> yo, this is rpf, dawg
> 
> no explicit stuff in ch.1, ch.2 will be ALL explicit stuff :devil:
> 
> you ever just accidentally churn out a monster? bc that's what happened to me. didn't mean to make this babey more than 5k but oh well
> 
> MANY thanks to @spacegirl for helping me beta this CHUNKY chapter, THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU ARE THE GEM OF GEMS AND I LOVE YOU!
> 
> if ur a loser like me and love pinterest boards, feel free to look at the pinterest board i used for inspiration and worldbuilding for this fic [here](https://www.pinterest.com/grayspacedout/green-light/)! there's a lot of pics that inspired brian's outfit and performance there. 
> 
> specifically: [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/204139795596419095/) is what inspired brian's outfit, and [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/204139795596419099/) is what inspired brian's headpiece.
> 
> warning: the word "queer" is used often in the fic to describe brian and will be also used to describe pat later on. mostly because queer was a more common term in the 20's, as well as that i don't want to label either pat or brian as gay. in this fic, brian identifies as bisexual and queer, and considers himself a queer performer/drag artist in a way : ) 
> 
> the title of the fic and the chapter titles are based off the song "green light" by lorde! a good listen while reading this fic! i would also recommend the song brian sings ([masculine women! feminine men!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLf8QJjyzKLu2hm1e_Ao0G-6YKhtZnJgHh)), and [the great gatsby soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLf8QJjyzKLu2hm1e_Ao0G-6YKhtZnJgHh)!
> 
> peas enjoy!

Patrick Gill isn’t known around the city for being particularly scandalous. 

It’s not that he would call himself boring, either. He’s not boring, not necessarily. He’s an artist, his mom would point out. He usually just calls himself a photographer, though. It’s a little pretentious as a career path, but when he's working at jobs that aren’t creative he just becomes irrevocably depressed. So he frames people, and things. Usually weddings and couples, sometimes families, because those are the people willing to pay him money to take pictures of them. 

Not everyone has _money,_ Pat knows. And not just any money: you’ve got to understand, Pat’s fine. He scrapes by. But he doesn’t have the kind of money where you can comfortably pay for a service so unnecessary as photo-taking. 

Those kinds of jobs remain mundane, for Pat. Normal. It’s rare that he’s surprised by any of the suggestions that wound-up mothers and fathers give him on the daily. Family portraits. Newlywed couples. Christmas cards. 

So he’s not used to getting a request from someone so young or so strange as Brian David Gilbert. 

Because, well, Pat’s got his information in the public, he gets his name out as a consulting photographer. People send him their client information—their names, their ages, what kind of photograph they want, where they want to take it, and negotiation for the pay. They’ve gotta send a letter to Pat’s P.O. Box, and one day when Pat’s checking his P.O. Box, he finds a letter from a Brian D. Gilbert.

He scans the letter, and finds that the letter’s writer is a young man in his twenties: Brian, a performer, asking Pat to take some pictures of him performing. He thinks it might be a joke at first, the request is so absurd and unusual. He catches himself, is he being too judgemental for thinking that? He shakes his head. Either way, it’s… not a normal occurrence. Even with nearly a decade of photography under his belt, he’s only had younger clients a handful of times. 

Patrick walks back to his apartment from the post office with the letter folded up tightly in his pocket, and when the cold November air hits his fingers they dive into his jacket pockets and find the letter again. As he walks, he runs his fingers over the imprinted paper. 

He can’t stop thinking about it, even as he climbs the stairs to his apartment and unlocks the front door. He sits down on his couch, unfolds it and reads it again. 

Another strange thing: the letter seems almost… flirtatious?

_Dear Patrick Gill, _

_I do hope your November is going well, despite the biting cold of New York. My name’s Brian David Gilbert. I’m a performer of twenty-five years old and I hail from Baltimore, Maryland. I saw your photos in the paper and thought how lovely they were, and decided I’d track you down, to hire you to take some photos for a project of mine. _

_Like I said, I perform, and I’m putting together a sort of “portfolio.” The problem is, I do not have many photos of myself performing. If you don’t mind working in the midst of a crowd, I’d love to hire you to take photos of me during one of my nighttime performances in the city during the weekend. _

_My return address is 329 Jane St Apt. 4, so feel free to answer this with a letter in response. Additionally, my phone number is NY-84907. You may call and ask for Brian. _

_As for pay, I’d obviously want to pay you at the very least the minimum wage for your hourly work, and I’d like to compensate you for working in a crowd and at night, two things I’m sure are unusual for your practice. But please, let me know. If you’d like to get together over coffee or come over to discuss compensation, I’d be delighted to have you. _

_Thank you, Patrick, and I hope to hear from you soon. Ciao, and well wishes! _

_Sincerely,  
Brian David Gilbert_

Maybe Pat’s reading too much into it because he’s thinking about the fact that this Brian David Gilbert person is only twenty-five. Younger than Pat is. It makes him feel a bit inadequate, really, because Pat’s not even at a financial place where he would spend the money for someone to take professional photos of him. But apparently this _Brian_ is a performer who wants to construct a portfolio. Which is. Something. 

Pat can’t stop himself from reading that second-to-last paragraph over and over again. First, Brian wants to pay him a fair wage—_I’d obviously want to pay you at the very least the minimum wage for your hourly work_—which isn’t necessarily saying anything, but Pat is grateful. It’s not common for people to agree with his commission prices. People are often flabbergasted by prices, but the technology is expensive, and photographs don’t come easy. So it’s nice, is all, that Brian wants to compensate him fairly, at least minimum wage, and then some for the strange environmental conditions. But that’s not what’s making Pat’s heart feel weird. It’s that: _please, let me know. If you’d like to get together over coffee or come over to discuss compensation, I’d be delighted to have you. _

And, well. Pat’s not _boring_ but maybe he's _bored._ He reads the letter once more, his eyes dragging across each word, the curly, light script. The pen must have pressed down hard into the paper; there’s a bit of an imprint that Pat can press his fingers into and try to imagine this Brian writing to him. He tries to imagine why Brian would write so fondly to a stranger. 

Pat gets up. Paces a bit. He walks to his kitchen in his cooped-up apartment and finds Charlie sitting near the window, his tail slinking back and forth as he stares back at Pat. Pat stands there, thinking about the letter, and then walks near the window. Charlie headbutts his ankles lovingly, and it brings Pat a little comfort, at least. He slides gently to the floor and pets Charlie as he climbs into Pat’s lap. 

“Should I call him?” Pat asks Charlie. He doesn’t respond, just keeps purring, and Pat supposes he should feel a little silly for asking his cat a question. After all, he’s sober and it’s the evening, but it’s not even dark outside yet. He doesn’t have any excuses.

They stay like that for a while longer, until Charlie stalks away in the direction of his food bowl, and yeah, alright. Pat raises to feed Charlie who’s reliably antisocial as soon as he’s eating. Pat’s thumb runs over the phone number inscribed on the paper once more, and then he’s settling nearby the phone and calling for the operator. 

“Hello, how may I help you?” 

“Hello operator, please ring me capital-N, capital-Y, eight-four-nine-zero-seven.” Pat’s voice is a little weaker than he remembers it being as he recites the numbers from the letter. 

“One moment, please.” 

Pat’s heart is going pretty fast, he notices. He’s not even sure exactly what he’s going to say. 

The line is silent for a few beats. Pat’s not breathing. And then, a voice, a bit muffled, and soft: “Hello?” 

It’s a female voice, Pat thinks, which is—well. He’s not going to assume anything. “Hello, this is Pat Gill. I received a letter from a Brian Gilbert and this was the line he gave to contact him.”

There’s some muffled talk from the other end—conversation away from the phone that Pat can’t make out, but the nature of which sounds… playful? When the voice comes back to the line, Pat hears, “Oh, sorry about that. Yes, this is the Gilberts. I’m Laura, nice to meet you, and you can talk to my brother in just a moment.” 

Oh. _My brother._ Pat’s mind switches around in a little rearranging click just as another voice joins the line. “Why, hello, Patrick Gill!” Pat hears, and the voice is… Well, it’s similar to the one before—Pat can detect a bit of the regional tone of a Baltimore native that Brian and his _sister_ are both from. And it’s also soft, and masculine. A contradiction already, then. “It’s so nice of you to call. How are you on this lovely Wednesday night?” 

There’s that word again. _Lovely. _Pat coughs politely, clears his throat. “I’m well. And, uh. I just wanted to check in with you, that I received your letter and that, I would be willing to, uh. Do business. With you?” Pat’s not sure where all his smoothness went, but he feels mortified by how awkward and squeaky his voice comes out. 

There’s a few beats of silence on the other end, and then Brian’s voice again. “Well, certainly, Patrick Gill. So, working in crowds of people and during the night isn’t a problem for you, then?” 

Pat pauses. “It’d be a challenge I’d be up for.” He closes his mouth, and then rethinks it. “Also, I’m, uh. I’m just Pat.” 

The response is a laugh. A pretty laugh, Pat notes. He pushes the thought out of his head immediately. “All right, _Just Pat,_ nice to meet you.” The joke is so lame that it makes Pat laugh. He finds himself wanting to spend way more time on the phone with this strange man. Brian finishes by introducing himself similarly: “I’m Brian David Gilbert.” 

“What, with the middle name and everything?” Pat questions, his tone light and joking. 

Brian seems prepared to answer this question. “Yup!” He says, the pop of the “p” resonating through the phone line and making Pat laugh. “I’ve got a public image to keep up, you know. People know me as BDG, when I’m performing.” Which is fascinating, and Pat’s—he’s gonna learn more about this, at some point, he’s sure.

But then, Brian, before Pat's even gathered his thoughts and figured out what to say in response to the fact that this guy has a stage name, suggests that Pat come over tomorrow. Thursday evening. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course,” he makes out, Brian’s voice smooth but maybe a little pitchy (or maybe that’s just Brian’s youngness—_Christ_). “I just think it’d be great to have you here.” 

To meet Brian and Laura, to have dinner with them—_and I’ve got a pretty good bottle of wine we could split open,_ Brian says—and to go over the details of Pat’s payment. 

“My address is on the letter you have. It’s near the Jane Hotel, just down the street, in an apartment building.” 

Brian keeps talking, keeps making suggestions, says that Pat can go out with Brian on the following night, on Friday night, to a club in _Greenwich Village,_ where Brian said he and Laura lived like it was no big deal, like that didn’t mean _anything_—

But of course it means something. Something pretty particular. Something _scandalous_. Pat’s mind is going a million miles a minute but Brian’s filling the silence so well it’s like he doesn’t even have to penetrate it. He’s just babbling. And Pat’s not going to be a dick about it. But— 

But Pat wants to, he wants to find out. He’s intrigued by the mysterious charm and queerness of Brian David Gilbert, and so; 

“Sure, Brian. I’d love to come over and meet you and Laura.”

Brian’s voice is crackly and excited from the line. “Well then, Pat Gill, we’ll see you tomorrow. Come over ‘round six, and you can help us make dinner.” 

The corners of Pat’s lips crook upwards in a bit of a smile, despite himself. “Alright, then, Brian. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you soon, handsome,” Pat hears, and he can hear the smile in Brian’s voice. 

He’s gone before Pat can process it at all, the implications of Brian calling him handsome. What. _What?_

He crosses the kitchen again to sit on the small ledge of his windowsill and open it to the cool city air. It’s a little smelly because he lives in Manhattan, but it’s familiar. 

With shaky hands, he pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket and a flip lighter, and begins to smoke. He almost doesn’t notice when Charlie snakes up around his ankles that are still firmly planted inside of his kitchen, and he jumps a bit, hitting his head against the windowsill. He swears, and then rolls his eyes at Charlie who just meows quietly and walks away. 

Looking into the cityscape around him, he wonders what Brian is doing and thinking right now. He exhales smoke into the cold night and watches it disappear into the air, drifting somewhere else. 

-

The next day, Pat finds that Brian’s place isn’t even a half-hour subway ride and walk. Pat lives in Manhattan too, but not in Greenwich District. Even as he tries to break down his biases, he’s still a bit scandalized by the fact that Brian lives in Greenwich. It’s known by most that Greenwich Village is the bohemian, artsy and _gay_ part of Manhattan. It has a booming queer night life, more speakeasies than one district could ever need, and dozens of artistic spaces that were known in public eye to be queer. Greenwich Village, Pat knows, is where people could go if they’re gay or transgender. There’s a sort of community there. 

When he arrives at the brick building that seems to be Brian’s address, he’s about to climb some stairs to get to a higher flight when he hears his name yelled through the air.

“Patrick!” and it’s Brian’s voice, sharp through the cold city air. 

He doesn’t see him, not yet, but he yells back, “Hey! Yeah, it’s me, Just Pat,” hoping his voice is loud enough for Brian to hear. 

When he finally sees that shock of brown hair and those bright eyes and even brighter smile, it steals his breath away for a moment. Brian is… shockingly beautiful. He’s got a mustache above his upper lip, which stands out starkly against his pale skin, but it suits his almost academic ensemble. He’s grinning at Pat like he doesn’t even know that he looks like a goddamn angel, and rushing forward to meet him halfway in the street. 

When he gets to the bottom of the stairs to his apartment, and Pat can finally see him all the way, he smooths down his outfit like there’s wrinkles or dust on it, but there’s not—he looks impeccable. He’s got on a jacket, wool, dark, but open—and under that he’s wearing an open but pressed white button-down with a wife-beater underneath. His chest _just_ showing, a daring touch of skin. His shirts are tucked into a pair of slacks and held together by suspenders, and he looks professional, especially for his age. Twenty-five. He’s fresh-faced and new, but still, at the end of the day, an adult. 

But when Pat steps forward to greet him, Brian doesn’t go to shake Pat’s hand. Instead, he crooks an eyebrow up and gives Pat the flirtiest smile he’s seen in quite a while, and it’s— It catches Pat off guard, because he’s never been in a situation quite like this before. He’s never put himself in this vulnerable of a position. 

While Pat’s thinking, Brian pulls him into a quick hug. It’s just a moment, but it feels extended to Pat, the way that Brian’s elbow crooks around his neck and pulls him in confidently and closely, how his hands automatically wrap around Brian’s waist and Brian hums approvingly. Brian’s extremely warm against his chest. Oh, _fuck._ He’s. He’s not sure how to feel about that, so he pulls away. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Pat,” Brian says amicably, and his cheeks are pink with the biting air. Pat nods and mumbles something stupid and quiet in reciprocity, because Brian is beautiful and oh, God, what is he _doing_ here. 

And is Brian queer? Or… gay? Or bisexual? He has to be, doesn’t he? Living in Greenwich like he does, hugging Pat and batting his eyelashes all pretty. Even his mustache is—it’s just... Pat doesn’t mind if he’s queer, it’s just that he’d like to. He’d like to know. 

And if he _is_ queer, then Brian is even more of an enigma: an effeminate queer man who is confident, and apparently financially secure enough to spend money on non-essential things like getting photos taken for a portfolio. If he’s queer, then he’s someone who’s open and flirtatious with Pat and also not ashamed of it. It’s the opposite of how Pat feels every single day when he looks at men and proceeds to feel nauseated because of how guilty he is. Because Pat can’t just fucking look at men normally. Because his brain is a little fucked up. 

Brian also has strong ties with his sister, who he _lives_ with, apparently. Pat’s not that close with his family, not by a long shot. 

Pat’s shaken out of his thoughts when Brian leads him up to his and Laura’s apartment. It’s a couple stories of climbing but Brian chatters to him all through it, so it doesn’t feel like much at all, and Laura’s standing near the door to greet them when they come in. She looks so similar to Brian that it’s almost confusing; their hair is a similar color and they have the same distinct eyes. 

“Hey, there, Pat,” Laura greets him, and shakes his hand proper. Her grip is firm. In contrast to Brian’s lack of handshake, this is comforting to Pat; he knows what to do. But it’s a bit amusing to him that Brian hugged him while Laura chose to shake his hand. She’s wearing a modest outfit, a tailored blouse in a neutral color and a dark skirt that reaches her shins. “How was the trek here?” 

“Not too bad. I live in Manhattan, too, so my commute wasn’t more than a half hour,” he considers, and then shrugs. “And I like autumn, so the November cold doesn’t bother me much.” 

They welcome him into their warm apartment, and Brian’s taking the jacket from his shoulders before he can take it off himself. It’s strangely intimate but Pat’s grateful; the apartment is warm and he can smell something cooking from the kitchen. “Thank you for having me over,” he says, a bit softly. He’s still in the mindset of _I’m not sure what I’m doing here. _

But it’s a cute little place. It’s overflowing with love, little knick knacks and pieces of art and heirlooms decorating every inch of this apartment. There’s real actual heating here and it’s refreshing; it warms Pat’s cold bones. He rolls his shoulders back and looks at Brian, who gives him a lopsided grin. 

He brushes Pat’s thanks off with ease. “No, no, none of that. It’s our pleasure. And we’ve gotta get you warmed up.” He eyes Pat up and down like he’s assessing how cold Pat is from the outside temperature. “Laura, have we got tea?” 

Pat sits down at their kitchen table, which is on the edge between their kitchen and living room, and spots a cat walking around, rubbing against Laura and Brian’s legs. Brian sits down next to him, and sheds his coat as well, hanging it on the back of his chair. His nose is still pink from the outside cold. 

Pat hears a snort from Laura who’s bustling around in the kitchen. Since they’ve sat down, she's tied a stained, patchworked apron around her waist and has started tending to some pots and pans on the stove. Whatever’s cooking smells delicious.

“Yeah, we’ve got tea. What kind d’ya like, Pat?” Laura asks, her voice carrying from the kitchen. 

Pat thinks for a second. “Got green tea?” he asks, and Laura gives an affirmative hum. Pat glances back at Brian, and finds the man watching him with attentive eyes. His eyes are so sharp—somehow both beady and big, sunken and bright. Brian’s eyes are unlike any eyes Pat’s ever seen. 

Brian breaks Pat’s silence by giving him a quick smile and beginning to talk about their business together, like a normal person would. “So, Pat. I was thinking, minimum wage is about twenty-five cents an hour. You’re going out of your way to work in an environment that’s challenging, so I’m willing to double that to fifty cents an hour.” And then Pat sees something he’s unfamiliar with thus far, but excited to see: this competitive streak of Brian’s, this little glint that shows that he’s not playing all of his cards right now, but he’s got this situation under control, all right. “What do you think, Pat?” 

Looking at the table in front of them, and then at Brian again, Pat frowns, and his eyebrows furrow. _How’s he supposed to play this? Is he overthinking it? _But when he looks at Brian, well, Brian’s rich enough to hire him to be here, so he’s rich enough to give him a fair wage. “How about you triple it instead? Seventy-five cents an hour. You are making me work in a crowd and during the nighttime, after all.” 

The corners of Brian’s mouth crook upwards into a smile, devilish on his face. He looks like Pat just told him they’re in cahoots together. Brian nods. “You drive a hard bargain, Gill, but I can appreciate it. Seventy-five cents an hour, then.” He holds out his hand, and Pat shakes it for the first time. His hand is a little smaller than Pat’s, and a little less rough, but his grip is _ambitiously_ tight, like he’s trying to grip Pat hard enough to prove that… to prove something. Pat’s not sure what. 

And so they shake on it. Seventy-five cents an hour. Laura comes in casually for a moment to give Pat his tea, and when she does, she tells him quietly she’s not his mom, and she’s not going to bring him shit after this. That makes Pat laugh, actually, and Brian looks at him with his eyes all wide.

“How long will the performance be, do you think, so we can plan and tally up hours in advance?” Pat asks casually, and Brian’s eyes light up like he’s excited to talk about it. 

“Well. My nights can be pretty long. You see, Pat,” he seems to look Pat up and down, his gaze lingers, making Pat feel uncomfortably seen. The pause is long. “I’m a night performer. I perform in queer bars and clubs and speakeasies and drag balls. I dance and sing. And I… play with gender.” 

“Like a… like a drag queen, then?” Pat asks, feeling like his breath is caught in his throat. 

Brian pauses. “Not exactly. But you’ll see.” He winks at Pat confidently, and Pat’s heart is racing, trying to imagine the environment he’s going to be in. “Is that going to be a problem for you?” Brian asks, cautiously. 

This is the out that Brian is giving him. And Pat knows he could take it. He could politely shrug off the job, head home. It’s a nice pay, but firmly outside of his comfort zone. So he should take it. Walk out. 

But he doesn’t. He just shuts his mouth, and shakes his head that _no, it won’t be a problem._ Brian seems to beam. “Great! Now, I won’t make you follow me around Greenwich all Friday night from dusk ‘till dawn,” Pat tries to imagine what this kind of night would entail. “But I was thinking I could take you to one of my longer stage performances. It’ll be about one to two hours of performance and photography, and I’ll pay you for the transportation fees as well, so consider it four hours.” 

Once they’ve resolved the business end of things, Laura and Brian are pulling him up by his hands to help them plate things up and bring them to the table. It’s a modest but full meal—bigger than most of Pat’s dinners, so he’s right about the Gilberts being at least a little wealthy. Which is, to Pat, a little confusing. Brian’s young. Fresh-out-of-University young, and Laura doesn’t look much older. And with Brian being so openly queer, especially as a queer night-life performer, shouldn’t they be having a rougher financial time than this? Pat struggles most days to get food on the table for dinner. But he’s a freelance artist, and he figures there’s a lot of money out there in the world, with the booming stocks and businesses of late and all that. After all, Pat’s not sure what Laura does for a living. He’s not sure how much he’s allowed to press about these things, but they prickle like curious goosebumps in the back of his head. 

Laura hands him a hand-masher and guides him to the sink where there are boiled potatoes sitting in a pot and steaming, freshly drained. She gestures for him to mash them, and he goes there obediently, genuinely wanting to help and not wanting to offend his hosts. 

Brian and Laura bustle and chat around him in a practiced and consistent way that makes Pat feel at ease. It’s like they have their own language that they use to communicate with each other, cutting each other off with laughter and knowing how the other will finish the sentence. 

And they make their way in friendly conversation, as they’re bringing the final dishes over to the table and sitting down, to talking about family. 

Or maybe Pat had just blurted out “does the rest of your family still live in Baltimore?” and Laura and Brian had looked at him like he grew a third arm. 

Pat clears his throat. “I’m sorry—” he starts. 

“No, no, it’s okay!” Brian says, and then shrugs. “I— We— Laura and I have a good relationship with our parents and the rest of our family. We’ve got an older brother and we’re close with our mom and dad. We go home sometimes for larger holidays like Christmas.” 

And, well. Pat feels bad once again for assuming Brian’s relationship with his parents, but he genuinely wasn’t expecting that he’d be close with them, either. It’s _strange,_ Brian seems to defy all of his expectations about his life and personality. It blows Pat’s mind in a good way. 

As Laura begins to eat, she rolls her eyes at Brian’s explanation. “That’s not the whole story. As soon as Brian turned eighteen he just had to get out of Baltimore and get to the big city, had to perform. And I’m his big sister, I’m not just going to let him go out to New York City on his own. So I dragged myself along with him, and here I am,” she recounts happily, her words not having much bite. “Mom’s actually much happier that I’m here to keep an eye on him.” 

Brian makes an embarrassed noise and Pat snorts at him, genuinely charmed by their sibling interactions. It makes Pat miss his sister a bit, too. He resolves to send her a letter when he thinks about it next. 

They eat together and joke together and it’s surprisingly easy, for Pat, to be with Brian and Laura. He had been gearing up for it to be difficult, but it feels like he fits in with them seamlessly. 

There’s also the fact that Brian seems to be flirting with Pat. It’s a little red hot, the way Brian nudges his foot against Pat’s under the table, like they’re teenagers. Or brushes his hand against Pat’s, lingering while passing dishes his way. To make things easier for himself, Pat’s pretending like he doesn’t notice because if he’s oblivious he doesn’t have to think too hard about how to respond to Brian’s little movements. His eyes are always on Pat in some way, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, their legs pressed together closely. It’s— it’s a lot. 

After dinner, Pat thanks them profusely for having him over, helps with the dishes, and excuses himself to leave quickly, taking a lungful of cold New York air in as soon as possible. It calms him, takes him out of that warm, soft environment of Brian and Laura’s apartment, and takes him back to the dark realism of New York City. It’s comforting to him, on a strange day like this. 

-

On Friday night, at the scheduled time, Pat walks to Brian’s place with his camera, some equipment, and he wears a nicer outfit. He figures they’re going out (although he doesn’t know where exactly), and he’s sure Brian’s going to be done up, so he doesn’t want to look like a slob. 

When the door opens to Pat’s knock, after a few beats, Pat sees Brian’s face on the other side—but wait, for a second he wonders if it is Brian. He looks totally different. 

He’s done up, presumably for his performance: in his fluffy, golden-brown hair there sits a crown of sharply jutting-out points, glinting gold whenever light hits it. His face is all done up with makeup, but the mustache remains, an anchor to Brian’s masculinity through the gold powder and glitter that coats the tops of his cheekbones, the point of his nose. While he’d been doing his makeup, Brian decided to darken the hallow between his eyes and his nose, making his eyes even more striking and sunken, but he wears bright, glittery gold eyeshadow that catches the light and makes his eyes smolder. There’s also a brown eyeliner that surrounds his eyes, making them look big and exaggerated. Brian’s used the same striking red as rouge on his cheeks to make himself flushed, as well as a faux-lipstick, and that pouty mouth breaks into a smile as soon as Brian sees Pat. 

He’s got that big wool coat on, again, but it’s buttoned up and closed tight around his body in a way that doesn’t show much of anything. Pat’s glad for it, because he’s already distracted enough, and if he thinks too long about how Brian’s wearing heels right now he might just run away like the coward he is. His hands shake as he gives a quick salute to Brian, making him laugh and step outside into the cold night air. 

Brian seems to look him up and down analytically. “How’s it going, Pat? How do you feel?” 

Pat lets out a little tense chuckle, and puts on his best shrink voice. “How do I feel? I feel okay, Brian. How do you feel?” It raises a laugh out of Brian who smacks him on the arm, making Pat notice that Brian’s wearing silk gloves. 

Pat’s a man of some constitution but not it’s not limitless, so he’s glad that Brian lives in the same neighborhood as this club supposedly is. As they walk through the Greenwich sidewalks, Brian tells him about where they’re going, who Pat will meet. It’s a little overwhelming, but Pat tries to keep up. “We’re going to the Cottonwood Club. It’s a speakeasy underneath a large part of the city, specifically a queer speakeasy. It’s a wild place, for sure, but you’ll love it, I swear. You’ll get to meet some of the best people, Pat, like Simone, she’s someone I dance and work with—oh! And you have to meet Jenna, she tends the bar—” 

By the time they’ve arrived at the small cafe that Brian says is an entrance to this speakeasy, they’ve received countless biting looks from strangers—although this is Greenwich Village, not many are as openly queer as Brian is, especially as he is right now. The contrast between his feminine costume and his masculine haircut and facial hair is stark, and it makes Pat feel protective over Brian, makes him give several rudely staring passer-bys some nasty looks. 

When they enter the small business Brian embraces the man at the counter like they’re family, and introduces him to Pat as Jeff, someone Brian’s apparently known for a long time. Jeff hugs him, too; it’s soft and friendly, and Pat tries to reciprocate as best he can. 

There’s workers in this small business, dressed as waiters, but Pat can tell by context—and by the fact that they’re all built as hell—they’re more than just that. One of them takes Brian and Pat to a back storage area, and then opens up one of the back walls for them. There’s a winding staircase downwards, and Pat can already hear music coming from down below. Brian grins at the waiter, _or maybe,_ Pat thinks, _the bodyguard,_ and he nods back at them. Brian grabs Pat’s arm and leads him down this staircase, and Pat’s mouth is open in a silent guffaw. 

As they’re descending, Brian rolls his eyes at Pat’s face and smacks his shoulder. “Geez, Pat, get cool. It’s just a speakeasy.” 

_Just a speakeasy._ Right. Pat rolls his shoulders back and tries to ignore the fact that he’s currently breaking the law. Whatever. 

When they get to the bottom of the staircase there’s a mass of people in this underground room, and it’s elegant and decorated with gold, glitter, mirrors, glass, glamorous lights. 

As Brian arrives in this overcrowded room, he’s immediately recognized by the people around him, embraced by several of the other dancers and slapped on the back in recognition and friendliness by people around him. Pat’s not sure where to look: everywhere is coated in decadence, in shiny golden art pieces and bottles of sparkling liquor. Everyone seems to be celebrating something. 

Brian floats through the crowd effortlessly like he belongs in every space, but especially this one. One of his many close friends greets him with a hug and a kiss on his cheek; she’s got big, natural, curly hair that reaches just above her shoulders, and some pieces are pasted to her face, presumably with a steady and knowledgeable hand. Above her hair is a black bowler hat, neat and pinned. She’s wearing a crisp outfit very similar to the one Brian wore the first time Pat met him: she’s got an open but obviously high-quality button-up, that shows the spanse of her chest and the flat part between her breasts. Hanging from her neck is a long necklace that reaches just there. Her pants are tailored near-perfectly. 

She looks devious and also like she knows way more than Pat will ever know. She gives him a wink, and holds out her hand. “Allegra Frank,” she introduces herself, her voice raised to reach Pat through the noise of the crowd. 

Pat clears his throat, and then meets her hand, shaking it firmly, and feeling somehow small, though Allegra is much shorter than he is. “Pat Gill, nice to meet you,” he says back, leaning down to carry his voice. 

Allegra grins at him, and then at Brian, and lets go of his hand all at once to hug Brian silly. He squeals and hugs her back and they trade off compliments like it’s a competition. 

“Oh, Bee, look at you, you’re gorgeous, this _crown_—” 

“Legs, your fucking outfit tonight, I want to like, push you down and suck your dick--” 

It makes Allegra laugh, a full bodied one, the same time it sends a jolt through Pat’s body like electricity. 

Allegra takes Brian’s coat off, helps him with it, very politely (it almost makes Pat wish that he had offered to do so, the way Brian thanks her and blushes when she hangs his coat over her arms). When his coat is off, Pat can see his costume tonight for the first time: it’s an angelic, golden silk gown, sleeveless but for the fabric that slips around his neck, and it hangs to his knees in a pretty, delicate way — and Pat just knows it’ll look gorgeous when he’s performing. He also wears a cape, with faux fur thick and dramatic around his neck, making him look resplendent and dignified. 

Allegra ends up taking both their coats to a back room as Brian explains that she works for the speakeasy—like many of the people there, including himself—but that he works as a performer, in more of a freelance way, like Pat’s freelance. “But she’s here every night. Does a lot of the dirtier work that places like this sometimes have to do.” 

“Dirty work?” Pat questions, his eyebrows knit together. 

Brian frowns. Pat hates that he made it happen. “It’s—you know. It’s a queer speakeasy, people are out and open here. Sometimes an asshole gets in and makes a scene, touches your ass without asking. You’ve gotta have people to deal with that shit, not just muscles. Sometimes having someone who does a little dirty work is a necessary thing.” 

Brian says this all right near Pat’s ear, and Pat’s glad, because they’re in the midst of so many people in this narrow underground party, and the music from the band down here is ricocheting and echoing back to them. But he can hear Brian’s voice because he’s basically shouting it right into Pat’s brain, and _what? _

“Touches your ass?” Pat says, meekly, not wanting the answer.

“Pat,” Brian says, a bit miserably. 

“Brian—” 

“It’s common, Pat. It’s the line of work. I get money for my body. So people feel entitled to touch me if they pay something. It’s wrong, but it happens a lot.” 

“I’m sorry,” Pat gets out, and Brian just shrugs it off and starts tugging him towards the bar. 

Well, one of the bars. There’s a ton of counter space so there are several bartenders working at once. At the bar Brian’s taken Pat to, is a woman with a fashionable half-shaved half-bob, her hair dark and cocoa, with a streak of purple. She wears a surprisingly feminine dress, red in color, and her lipstick matches the hue perfectly. She crooks an eyebrow at Brian. “What can I get you tonight? And who’s your friend, Bee?” 

“This is Pat,” Brian seems to gush, “and Pat, this is Jenna! The best bartender in New York.” 

Pat smiles at Jenna and Jenna smiles back, genuinely friendly. “Nice to meet you, Pat. Did you meet Simone yet? Oh, she’s going to eat you right up.” Brian laughs at this. 

Pat tries to think of what to say, but doesn’t have to, because Jenna gives them drinks and shoos them away from the bar to _make room for other customers to actually buy things. _

Dancers, dressed in feathers and beads, flit around the room like firecrackers, flirting and flouncing and winking at patrons. But, Pat notices, most of these dancers are men: like Brian, most of them are done up in intricate costumes much like flappers wear. To see men wearing beaded, shin-length skirts with intricate lace and flowing silk, to see them embracing femininity... It’s making Pat feel almost overloaded, diving into the deep end of being immersed in queer culture. It’s completely different than what Pat’s seen and heard his whole life. Raised in Catholic school, he was told that the only valid relationships were between men and women. This is the first time Pat’s seen men be allowed to wear makeup, be allowed to be flirtatious towards other men. It feels like opening a locked chest that has been closed forever and finding it’s filled with gold. 

He looks around and sees a tall woman wearing a fashionable outfit very similar to Allegra’s, except with leather straps in a harness around her torso and legs over her slacks. She's got a serious face, with straight, dark hair framing her expression dramatically. When she sees Brian, her expression brightens, and she approaches him, pulling him into a hug. When she hugs him, Pat hears her purr something into Brian’s ear, and he giggles right back at her, winking. Pat tries helplessly to follow their interaction and fails miserably, but she seems to take pity on him and approaches Pat like she’s approaching a wounded animal. 

She reaches out and touches his face, caresses it through her leather gloves. Pat feels uncomfortably _seen_ under her stern gaze. She tilts his head upwards to lock her eyes with his. She looks at him, raising her eyebrows as if expectant of him to say something, so he stutters out a poor version of an introduction. “P—Pat Gill.” 

She laughs in response, full-bodied and unashamed, and it’s a gorgeous laugh. It makes Pat like her even more. “I’m Simone de Rochefort. Nice to meet you, Pat Gill.” 

She presses a kiss into his cheek, and then her hands and grip are gone, and she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd. When Pat shakes his head and gathers himself, Brian’s smirking at him. He can feel his face heating up. “What?” he asks Brian. 

“You’ve got a kiss mark on your cheek from Sim,” Brian says, a smile playing wide upon his features, and he procures a piece of cloth, a hankerchief maybe, from somewhere on his costume. He licks the cloth and rubs Pat’s face with it; Pat feels frozen in place. Brian smiles at him, and he smiles weakly back. 

Brian tilts his head to the side, a little curious, and then tucks his handkerchief back somewhere in his pocket. He leans in close to the side that Simone hadn’t kissed, and presses a lingering kiss to Pat’s cheek. Pat is so still. 

Before he leans away, Brian says into Pat’s ear, “M’gonna perform soon, get your camera ready. See you later, Pat Gill.” 

Camera. Oh. Right. Yes. He’d almost forgotten, in this den of pleasure and loud music and lingering kisses and hedonism, that he’s going to have to take pictures of Brian. It seems inconvenient to remember this just as he’s watching Brian disappear into the crowd. There’s a stage at the opposite end, and Pat has to get his camera ready and get to a good vantage point. 

It’s difficult to exist here. Not just because it’s bustling with people and life but because those people and this life are so undeniably queer that it’s like Pat’s staring directly into the sun. Or like rubbing salt into a wound he’s kept covered up since he was twelve. 

Nevertheless he makes his way to the far end of the club, slipping between bodies, and finds a corner of the room that he can reliably see the stage for Brian’s performance. Currently, a group of flappers are performing on the main stage—there are several performers here tonight, but Brian is one of the headlining ones—BDG.

After just a few minutes, a man walks on stage to announce over speakers to the entire room. “Please welcome—The Queer, the wonderful, the talented... Bee Dee Gee!” 

The room erupts into cheering and applause, whistling and hoots. It’s wonderful to see the obvious adoration that everyone has for Brian here. And when the curtain goes up, Brian stands in a dramatic, feminine pose, gazing into a point in the distance. Although he’s got his camera in his hands and is poised to take photos, Pat almost forgets he’s supposed to be taking pictures because Brian’s so breathtaking. With the stage lights flooding him like this, every spec of glitter on his face sparkles, and he’s confident, unshaken, made for the stage. 

In front of him is a mic on a stand, presumably for him, and for some reason it hadn’t occurred to Pat that Brian isn’t just a performer, isn’t just a dancer, but that he sings, too. 

Leaning into the mic ever so slightly, Brian exhales for the whole room to hear, his voice hot and low before he shouts, “hit it!” 

And the band starts on his cue.

It’s a modest setup, just some drums, a trumpet, an alto saxophone, and a standing bass, but it’s enough, certainly. It’s clear, to Pat then, Brian is the point of this performance. He is the star. 

Pat takes photos, knowing he has enough film to take hundreds, so he goes for it—and Brian is not just made for the stage, but also photogenic. He has a good feeling that these will be good pictures, and if it’s Brian’s doing and not his own, then who has to know? 

When Brian opens his mouth to sing, his voice is deep, caramel-sweet and perfectly hits each note and beat. He soaks up the crowd’s cheers like they’re his life blood and struts the stage as he performs, striking poses to show off his costume and moving his body along to the song. 

_Hey! Hey! Women are going mad today_  
_Hey! Hey! Fellas are just as bad, I'll say_  
_Go anywhere, just stand and stare_  
_You'll say they're bugs when you  
_Look at the clothes they wear __

_Masculine women! Feminine men!_  
_Which is the rooster, which is the hen_  
_It's hard to tell 'em apart today_  
_And say..._

He also has perfect comedic timing for a funny song like this. He’s talented not just as a vocalist but as a performer: Pat’s entire being is focused on Brian, and he has a feeling he’s not the only person in the room hypnotized by him. 

As Brian continues through the song, he begins to shed some pieces of clothing—his golden silk gloves, at first, pulling them off by the pad of his pointer finger and flinging it into the crowd for cheers and laughs, and does the same with the next. The crowd is roaring by the time Brian slips off his dress, and performs in just a skimpy silky bra, and a dancer slip around his hips. His crown stays on, and he looks like an angel as he sings and sways and flirts with people who hold up tips for him to grab. By the end of the second chorus, he’s got dollar bills hanging out of the silky-sweet bandeau across his chest. 

_My Auntie is smoking, rolling her own,_  
_Uncle is always buying cologne_  
_It's hard to tell 'em apart today_  
_Hey! Hey!_

_You go in to give your girl a kiss in the hall_  
_But instead you find you're kissing her brother Paul_  
_Ma's got a sweater up to her chin_  
_Pa's got a girdle holding him in_  
_Those masculine women and feminine men!_

At the end of the song, Brian grins up at the crowd as it erupts in deafening cheers that Pat joins in with, before snapping a picture of Brian faced with his loving crowd of fans. He looks blissed out, drunk on adoration. 

Brian leans in close to the mic, and starts the band up again for another song, and Pat raises his camera up in anticipation. 

-

After Brian’s done with his hour-long stage performance and the half-hour of congratulations and drinking—all free thanks to his friends and fans—he’s drunk and hanging off of Pat’s arm cutely. He keeps insisting that Pat come back to his apartment with him because he lives in Greenwich Village anyway, so it only makes sense. 

There’s other implications, too, for Pat escorting Brian home and agreeing to stay with him in his apartment, but he tries not to think too hard about them as they exit the speakeasy into the cold New York air. Brian’s mostly all wrapped up, but the icy, dead-of-night chill still ruffles Brian’s hair and makes him shiver, and he holds Pat close to him like he’ll die from hypothermia if he’s more than a centimeter away from Pat’s warmth.

While they’re walking, Pat decides to voice a thought he’s had for a little while. “Why do you live here, in Greenwich Village, if it means you’re basically always out, openly queer?” Pat asks, and his words hang heavy in the air. 

As soon as the words are out, Pat regrets them. They twist up Brian’s face and make him somber and quiet. Brian stops in his tracks on the sidewalk and so Pat stops too. Even in his performing attire and a big robe as well as a winter coat, he looks small. 

Brian pauses for a long moment. “I don’t know how to respond to that in a very short way, Pat Gill,” he begins with, and laughs a bit, sadly, although Pat’s not sure what’s funny. His breath is warm in the cold New York air and it curls into frozen particles of white above them. 

“I had to come to New York more than anything because I knew I had to perform. I don’t know, Pat. It’s something about community. I need to be out, I need to perform, I need to unleash that persona I am when I’m performing. There’s somewhat of a queer community in Balti, but nothing like this, Pat Gill, not even close. The underground clubs here. You have no idea. What you saw tonight?” Brian grabs Pat’s shirtsleeve in an attempt to keep his attention, but it’s not necessary—Pat is already hanging on Brian’s every word. “It’s nice, yeah, but it’s just a sliver of the whole picture. Imagine that, but a dozen times over. There’s that many queer spaces just in downtown NYC.” 

And Pat supposes that makes sense. He’s relaxing into this, the concept that Brian is making him think deeply and introspectively about: queerness. And why it can be important to someone. Brian’s community. Brian’s family was accepting in Baltimore, but he still needed to come here. Because he felt a sense of belonging here, and a sense of need to be here and integrated in the culture. 

Pat can understand a need like that.

-

It takes Brian a few tries to actually slide his key into place and turn it the right way for his door to unlock, but when it does, they both stumble inside easily, laughing all giggly. Brian’s face is flushed and Pat notes how cute it is, how the bright white light from the streetlamp glints on the glitter that coats his cheekbones. Pat’s fingers itch with the desire to touch. He stops himself, but worries that he’s not going to be able to suppress these urges forever. That scares him. He clicks the front door shut behind him and locks it with an afterthought about the neighborhood and the way that Brian and him must have looked walking home. Brian’s babbling to him about how he asked Laura to leave for the night, so they’ve got the apartment to themselves. It’s another thing Pat tries not to think too hard about. 

They’re both pretty tipsy, and Brian’s giggly, and it’s adorable. He guides Pat over to the couch for them to sit down and Pat accepts gratefully, and the kid presses himself all up against Pat like they’re in grade school, and it’s cute, the way his knee knocks into Pat’s. He’s got this million-dollar winning smile on his face like he just won the lottery, except Pat doesn’t know why. 

“What are you so happy about?” Pat teases, returning Brian’s dopey smile right back at him. 

Brian winks at him. It highlights the makeup that he must have meticulously done before Pat picked him up. The reddish blush of rouge high on his cheeks, the gold coating his eyelids and the high points on his face, the dark eyeshadow emphasizing the deepness of his eyes, the brown liner making his eyes look wide open, innocent, puppy-cute. “Why, Pat Gill,” Brian starts, and then presses just the pad of his pointer finger on the tip of Pat’s nose for a second. “Because I’ve got the cutest guy in town in my apartment tonight.” 

Pat tenses for a second, then forces himself to relax. It’s not like he doesn’t want Brian to flirt with him. In fact, the insinuation that Brian thinks he’s attractive… It’s. It’s something else. But he’s gotta say something, can’t just sit there gaping like an idiot like he’s doing right now. 

“Cutest? Am I a puppy?” he says a bit lamely. 

Brian hums, and then leans forward, closer to Pat’s face, like he’s trying to get a gauge on him. Pat feels strangely read, like he’s realizing he feels fairly often around Brian. “Is it okay if I think you’re cute, Pat Gill?” Brian asks slowly. 

“You already called me handsome before,” Pat points out. His throat is tight. He feels like his nerves are on fire. He cracks his knuckles in a nervous habit and then runs them through his hair and tries to straighten it back again. Brian’s staring at him. 

“Yes, I did, Pat.” Pat doesn’t like the slow way Brian’s talking to him. It’s stressing him out a bit. “Is that okay?” 

Pat nods, and then decides to verbally confirm it as well: “Yes, Brian.” 

And so Brian shrugs, and then leans back on the couch, draping his arm over the sofa. He’s not made many moves to take off any of the stage-clothes he’d been wearing: his costume (what’s left of it after he’d shed many pieces during the performance) is not much more than a handful of straps of fabric: he’s still got on what his version of a bra is, with the pointy nipples and everything, but there’s no body there, or imitation breasts: in fact, Pat thinks, a thought from the dirty streak in his brain, if the fake pointed part were to be removed, Brian could wear this garment and Pat could feel Brian’s nipples from the outside, feel them firm up beneath the fabric. 

He shakes his head as if it will make his thoughts less unacceptable. 

Around Brian’s midsection to his upper thighs is a cute slip, made of silky fabric, and it looks dancerly, like Brian specifically tailored or bought this so he could move in it. There’s still that unfairly ethereal headpiece perched above Brian’s hair, glinting gold whenever light hits it. Brian himself is reflective and absolutely breathtaking. 

Pat doesn’t know what to say, and he’s scared, so he says “I’ve never had makeup on before,” like a complete dumbass, because he knows for a fact that Brian will respond in tune with— 

“Would you like to?” 

And, well. Yes. Yes, he would. 

After less than a minute’s negotiation, and Brian flitting from the room to grab a few tools and compacts, Brian crawls into Pat’s lap with something of a determined expression. Pat can’t see what he has altogether because Brian’s already taken off his glasses, but he can see there’s a container with something bright red. “Rouge?” he questions Brian. 

“Yeah. Gonna make you look really pretty, Pat,” Brian says, a little breathy and so sincere it makes Pat laugh, tipsy in the happiest way. 

Brian’s eyes are focused as he ties back Pat’s hair into a little bun at the back of his head, tucking some stray black strands behind his ears. Brian gathers some of a white, soft cream in his hand and works it into Pat’s face, gently. He’s using mostly just his fingertips, gentle with Pat in a way that’s almost unbearable for him. When he wants to shift Pat’s head, he takes Pat’s head in his hand with ginger fingers and tilts it one way or the other, Pat following his motions obediently. 

Nobody touches Pat like this. Pat’s not sure what to do with all of this loving attention from someone who barely knows him, but letting Brian do this to him is one of the most vulnerable things he’s ever done. 

Luckily, Brian talks as he goes—something Pat is grateful for—and narrates what he’s doing. “I just applied some moisturizer to your skin, and now I’m gonna do some rouge to make your complexion more lively.” Brian’s taking a reddish compact with a sponge to his face, and Pat wonders how he’s looking. Probably like a clown. Brian can pull this off, yes, because, well. He’s the real deal, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s serious about it. Pat’s just a visitor to this life. 

When he’s done applying rouge to Pat’s cheeks, he also thumbs some on Pat’s bottom lip. The way his eyes linger at Pat’s lip is something Pat doesn’t miss, even though he’s still fairly tipsy. “There,” Brian says, “that does it for rouge. One more thing though. Can I put some mascara on your eyelashes?” 

Pat shrugs. “I might not be the best model in the world for you, but yeah, why not.” 

Brian looks excited, and pulls out a small, rectangular box with a pad of black and a small brush. “Look up for me, Pat, and I’ll be quick,” Brian says sympathetically, while presumably coating the mascara brush. Pat does so obediently, and he feels Brian run the prickly brush through his eyelashes upwards, making them curl. And maybe his eyes twitch a couple times, but he figures that’s alright. “Mmm,” Brian hums happily. “You look pretty, Pat. Wanna look?” 

When Brian hands him his glasses, it’s difficult for Pat to decide if he should look at himself in the mirror. He kind of wishes he could just linger in this space forever instead, where Brian is fully in his lap and grinning at him and touching his face with something close to reverence. But after pausing for a moment, he knows he must give in, and allows Brian to climb off of his lap so he can follow Brian to a mirror on the opposite wall. 

When he catches his reflection, all the air leaves his lungs. His eyelashes are longer and more distinct, his skin is flushed instead of being drained of color, and his lips are pink. For Pat, looking at himself with makeup on is conflicting, because he’s not sure how to look at himself like this without feeling pained and embarrassed. He feels like he could watch Brian perform and wear shiny things and dramatic makeup forever in awe, but doing it himself is another thing entirely. 

Knowing that he could never make Brian feel bad about it, he smiles and thanks Brian for the makeover. It’s not that it’s bad at all: it’s _good,_ is the thing. He just can’t look at himself. He’s afraid he’d like it too much, or hate it too little. 

When he turns and sees Brian, he realizes just how beautiful Brian is. Maybe the last minutes where he hadn’t been wearing his glasses have made him forget, but Brian’s hair is fluffy and golden and his face is flushed in the soft light of his living room. His face is open and vulnerable, softened in a gaze of somber morning, the three-in-the-morning filter that makes everything ethereal with the blur of your eyes. 

Pat steps towards him, closes the gap between them, because really, what’s that space doing there? It makes Brian inhale in a sharp way, but his eyes don’t leave Pat’s face. His mouth is open, just a bit, and Pat can see a sliver of his teeth, his soft tongue. 

There’s that smile again, crooking the corner of Brian’s mouth up in a cute way. Pat tries to center himself, to be normal while he’s basically breathing Brian in. But then he feels Brian’s arms loop around his neck. It’s a re-do from their hug yesterday, but Brian’s not tucking his head up against Pat’s chest; instead he’s staring him down with those intense, bright eyes. 

“I want to kiss you,” Brian says, and it’s soft, but confident. “What do you think about that, Pat Gill?” 

Pat licks his lips. Thinks, and then thinks better. “Yes, _please,_” he says, succinctly, and then his entire universe tumbles into oblivion as Brian kisses him breathless.


	2. I whisper things; the city sings them back to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But he can’t help it: Brian’s intoxicating. Even though it feels like he’s diving off the deep end into something he knows nothing about, Brian sure makes it feel sweet. _
> 
> Pat's scared, but he wants. Brian indulges him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by [[brian voice] “darling~”](https://youtu.be/RVdTZhmsGsU?t=819)
> 
> AS WELL AS THE BEST BETA READER IN THE WORLD, @SPACEGIRL! <3 
> 
> and viewers like you!
> 
> this was a real Hard One to write, so i hope you enjoy!

For the first time since arriving at Brian’s place for the night, Pat thinks very specifically that he is grateful that Laura is gone— because Brian’s not subtle nor is he gentle, when he pulls Pat towards him in this fierce kiss. This kiss is not real, and Pat’s hands grip Brian in an attempt to hold on, because this kiss is the stuff of dreams. Their lips move together in a way that feels more natural that it should, considering how little experience Pat has with the particular skill of _kissing men. _

But he can’t help it: Brian’s intoxicating. Even though it feels like he’s diving off the deep end into something he knows nothing about, Brian sure makes it feel sweet. 

Brian’s hands are wrapping around his neck as Pat’s hands naturally fall around Brian’s waist, pulling him close as they kiss. Brian deepens it, his mouth opening, and Pat responds in tune—and finds him sweet and soft, even as he’s been drinking and talking and performing all night. His tongue is gentle, skillful. 

And then one of Brian’s hands, as they’re kissing, comes from the nape of Pat’s neck down to his jaw and then his chest, touching touching _touching_ Pat’s chest over his shirt. His curious hands make Pat shiver. When Brian pulls away, his eyes are sparkling and he looks at Pat incredulously, like he can’t believe Pat is letting this happen; but Pat wants it so _badly,_ is the thing, and he needs Brian to know that, so he dives forward again, coaxing Brian’s mouth open with his tongue and exploring him. When he does so, Brian whimpers just a little into his mouth, and it makes Pat’s body feel like an electrical cord poised to snap. 

Brian’s hands, when they touch Pat, are _real_ gentle, he notices: they clutch very gingerly the pressed fabric of the dress shirt Pat’s wearing, tucked into some worn-down slacks. It’s not like Pat’s wearing anything real special: in fact, his dress clothes are more than a little old, and he definitely needs to be more fashionable if he’s going to be hanging around Brian at all in the future. 

_Then again,_ he tells himself, _he shouldn’t assume there’ll be a future. This could just be a one-time gig. In fact, that’s most-definitely what would be better for the both of them._

But Brian’s touching him like he’s breakable and delicate and _worth_ something. 

Brian kisses his cheek very tender and sweet before disappearing for a moment, so quickly flitting into his bedroom and then back again that it doesn’t even bother Pat that he leaves. When he comes back, he’s in different clothing. Pat’s glad for it: he felt a little predatory before, with Brian in just the skimpy leftover lingerie of the end of a Cabaret-esque performance. 

Now he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and some dark flannel boxers, his feet in wool socks against his apartment’s hardwood floor. That spiky golden crown is supposedly resting somewhere else, because it’s no longer on Brian’s head, and Brian’s hair is mused, like maybe he messed it up with his fingers before he came back out.

He’s still got his makeup on; Pat supposes it would take more time to take it off. Still, though, it’s faded from earlier; the night’s taken its toll on Brian, with the sweaty proximity of an underground queer speakeasy, the many people who have kissed his cheeks tonight, and the little cute crinkle around Brian’s eyes when he smiles. 

He stands there in his boxers and t-shirt looking at Pat, and grins at him, striking a pose in his living room, and winking at Pat. He looks as gorgeous as ever. Pat takes his hand and pulls him into a kiss, gentler than before. 

It’s _terrifying_ and the sweetest thing Pat’s ever experienced. 

This whole night has been somewhat terrifying for Pat. One of the most terrifying nights of his life; and yet, one of the most fun, enjoyable, and freeing nights of his life, as well. From the moment he read Brian’s letter, he knew he was getting himself into a queer sort of trouble if he were to pursue it. But, the thing is— Pat wants to get himself into this _exact_ sort of trouble. 

_You don’t come across people like Brian David Gilbert every day,_ Pat thinks. _And I’m not letting it go to waste._

Leaning forward and catching Pat by the belt loops, Brian lines up their bodies before unbuttoning the first couple buttons of Pat’s shirt. He’s quiet, focused, and the way his forehead wrinkles up while he’s doing this makes Pat feel a little weak. When he’s a few buttons down, he gestures for Pat to take it off, and he does, leaving him with just his undershirt. He tugs at Pat’s belt, too, and so he undoes it, and strips himself of his pants, leaving him in a similar dress to Brian. 

Seemingly satisfied, Brian gives him a gentle push towards the couch. It’s a big, comfortable thing, with quilts and homemade blankets hanging off the back and sprawling over the sides. It’s old, but assuage in its oldness. Pat lets himself be moved, sitting down, before Brian climbs into his lap and kisses him, their lips locking together and Brian licking into his mouth. 

It’s surprising how very lithe Brian is when he climbs into Pat’s lap: he’s strong and flexible and just has a good body, _alright,_ and when Pat feels Brian’s thighs press into his hips he imagines how it will feel to have Brian wrap his legs around Pat’s middle— 

These thoughts are not ones he allows himself to have often. Usually when he feels this way—when he thinks about how wonderfully soft some man’s hair at the grocery market looks, or when he stares a little too long at the rippling muscles of male athletes in sports competitions, or when he accidentally brushes his hand with a hand of a tall, handsome man on the train—it comes along with nausea, the inability to feel comfortable in his attraction to men. 

But he’s looser tonight: he can probably attribute that to not only the drinks Brian and his friends bought for him but also, too, the overwhelming siege of his will of existing in a queer underground club for an entire night. But somehow this—Brian in his lap as their mouths melt together hotly—is scarier, even more beautiful than that. His heart is beating rapidly, his movements wholly motivated by adrenaline and the want to touch. 

And Brian does let him touch: encourages it, really, the way he takes Pat’s hands from where they were itching at Pat’s sides and presses them to the soft skin of his sides, curling Pat’s hands inward so that his thumbs _could_ just brush over Brian’s nipples while he’s holding him. Brian’s beautiful as he dips down to kiss Pat once more, rocking his hips down against Pat’s like he’s made for it, the sweet pressure that it gives Pat just with one little movement. 

Brian’s mouth is something special too; he kisses with a sort of asserted confidence Pat _should_ have expected from him, given it’s shown in every single action and word that the kid does, but—he didn’t expect it, is the thing, and he’s shocked by just how fearless Brian is, clear through every lick of the inside of Pat’s mouth, every pinch of Pat’s chest by Brian’s wandering hands, every time the kid purposefully clacks their teeth together and then rolls his hips down on Pat’s. _Christ._ He’s gonna die. 

It’s a heavenly death. Brian catches his bottom lip between his teeth and bites, just enough for Pat to groan into his mouth, and he pulls away to grin at Pat, the devilish thing. Pat pulls him back to get his lips on him again; he’s afraid if they stop for too long, they’ll maybe lose this fucking incredible thing that they’ve got going right now, this push and pull— 

Maybe that’s just Pat being worried. Can you blame him? Brian’s like a tornado, sweeping into his life and crashing into his supposed straightness and boring, normal life and he’s known Brian for not two days and it feels like Brian’s changed _everything._ He’s not sure what’s going to happen after this—what Brian’s going to want from him, if anything—maybe Brian will just toss him out to the streets afterwards— 

But. Brian is kind. He wouldn’t do that. Christ, he had Pat over for dinner yesterday, and he _did ask_ Pat to sleep over at his apartment when they were putting their coats on in the back room of the Cottonwood Club. 

_The back room with all the jackets and outerwear of patrons is empty of people except for Simone, Allegra, Brian and Pat, and it’s comforting, a little, to be in a space that has room to breathe. Still, it’s underground Manhattan, and the noise and music from the main hall of the speakeasy are clearly discernible through the thin walls. There must be a staircase above this room, because as Pat hears heavy footsteps above them, a little dust shakes down from the ceiling. _

_When Simone shuts the door behind him, Brian and Allegra begin to talk excitedly about Brian’s performance whilst Allegra shuffles through the racks to look for Brian’s jacket. _

_“Brian, the part with the feathers—oh, you must show me how to do that one dance—!” _

_While they’re talking, Simone gives him _that_ look again, the one that makes him feel like she can see right through him, to his very soul. _

_She approaches him from the center of the room, to where he’s now leaning against the wall, and crowds him towards it a little, her presence heavy and intimidating and absolutely entrancing. She pauses for a moment, from looking at Pat, to pull a small object from her pocket. It’s metal, small, with a carved, polished wood handle, and it looks threatening, deadly in her meticulously painted fingers. But wait, that’s not a _knife,_ is it? Why would she— And Simone— She’s bringing her hand forward— Pat flinches— _

_There’s that laugh again: bright, beautiful, full-bodied. Simone is laughing at him. He opens one eye to look at her and finds her holding a comb. _Oh._ It’s a comb, fashioned to function like a switchblade._

_Pat’s about to start to try to say something when Simone grabs his chin again, like she had before, in her leather gloves. He quiets immediately. Then, he feels her bring the switch-comb to his head, brushing firmly but gently through his hair. It’s messy and long, just past his ears, but straight. “Patrick,” she says, pausing her work on his head to tilt his head up and look at him in the eyes. _

_“Yes?” he answers weakly. _

_“Take care of Bee tonight. Oh, yes, I know he can take care of himself, he’s a strong little fucker, that’s for sure—but he is quite intoxicated tonight, alright? Just get him home safe,” she says good-naturedly. She then pats him on the face, flicks the comb back into her own palm, clicks it closed with a finality. “And hey, don’t fuck him while he’s blackout drunk.” _

_This raises an involuntary squeak out of Pat, which makes Simone laugh at him again, tucking away her comb into her pants pocket. “You’re a good one,” she says, like she’s just decided, and then she holds her hand out near Pat’s face, palm-down. He takes it with shaking hands, and presses a hesitant kiss to the top of her hand. She nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns away, her cape billowing as she disappears, opening the door back into the speakeasy and shutting it curtly behind her._

_When Brian approaches him again, Pat’s buttoning up his coat, trying to comprehend Simone’s words. Brian seems to gravitate to and then cling to Pat, his hands wiggling up in the gap between Pat’s side and his arm. “Stay with me tonight,” he says, softly, but not soft enough that Allegra wouldn’t hear him. Pat senses her head whip around to watch and listen to them. _

_“What?” Pat says, though he heard Brian. He needs to hear it again. _

_Allegra gives him a suspicious look, eyes him up and down. Earlier, Brian assured Allegra that he knows Pat, that Pat is a good guy— but even Pat wrinkled his nose, because how can Brian be so sure? He’s more inclined to agree with Allegra than to advocate for himself, so._

_“Stay with me tonight,” Brian repeats. “It only makes sense. It’s nearly three in the morning, Pat, don’t take the subway home. Just. Laura’s not even home, you could even take her bed if you need to.” He pauses. “Or. You know. Wherever you want to sleep.”_

_Pat’s mouth feels dry. “I’m not sure,” Pat says, because he’s not. _

_“Think about it, then.” _

Brian’s not nearly as drunk now as he was then: his movements are more assured and his eyes more awake than lidded. This makes sense: it’s been an hour since they left the Cottonwood Club, and even more since either of them have drank anything. He looks as energized as Pat _feels,_ lit up with arousal and want. His hips are rocking steadily against Pat’s and Pat’s hard, sweat gathering on his forehead, need coursing through him.

Pulling back for a moment, Brian seems to drag his eyes over Pat’s body, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He’s flushed, pink; not from the rouge, this time, but _God,_ his skin’s _glowing_—and his hair looks soft and touchable, his eyes lidded as he stares down at Pat. “Glad I finally seduced you,” he purrs out, ducks his head low to kiss Pat’s neck with soft lips. 

This raises a laugh from Pat, incredulous, disbelieving, because Brian’s like—he’s a goddamn _angel,_ is what he is, perched on Pat’s lap there. “Don’t know why you did,” he says truthfully, and he can see Brian’s eyes sparkle, illuminated in the lamplight. 

“Pat Gill,” Brian starts, his hand coming down to brush over Pat’s chest, slow, like he’s savoring it. Pat notices, for the first time since Brian’s taken his gloves off, that he’s wearing a sparkly gold nail-polish on his fingernails; it shines in the soft light of Brian’s living room. One finger catches at the collar of Pat’s army-issue white undershirt and Brian’s fingers graze the skin at Pat’s neck, his fingernails _just_ scraping the front of Pat’s chest before his hands retreat to dance over his collarbone again. Every movement makes Pat’s breath catch. Brian laughs a little breathily. “Ever since I saw your picture in the paper, I was done for.” 

Pat gasps; he’s not expecting those words from Brian. In fact, he’d forgotten altogether that he even put a picture of himself in the advertisement he submitted to the newspaper—and it was just a tiny picture, maybe half an inch by half an inch, alongside examples of his photography and his contact information. “You—what do you mean?” he questions, needing to hear an explanation. 

Brian hums, and one of his hands come up to Pat’s hair, brushing his fingers through it lightly. It’s surprisingly gentle, and makes Pat’s whole scalp tingle with the move of his fingertips. “Just… your eyes, Pat. I thought your eyes looked so—I don’t know, it sounds stupid now, but—they looked intense. Passionate. I needed to meet you, see what you were made of.” 

Then, he’s leaning back down just to kiss softly and sweetly at the base of Pat’s neck. His words exhale over Pat’s neck warmly. “When you came over, and I saw how sweet you were, saw that handsome face in person, I decided, I—I knew. I wanted you. I knew I needed to kiss—” he punctuates this by connecting their lips, just a couple seconds, gone before Pat knows it— “and touch—” he runs his hands down Pat’s chest, pausing to thumb over Pat’s nipples— “and feel.” Brian rocks his hips down, grinding his ass against Pat’s hard cock under him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Pat breathes out, and catches Brian’s lips, licks into his mouth with fervor. But Brian’s climbing off of him, separating their mouths, and Pat’s just about ready to whine for it, before Brian’s grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet. 

He feels swept up in it, and goes along with the movement—_hah_, like he has a choice in the matter, with Brian’s whirlwind energy—and Brian tugs him towards the door to his bedroom, shuts it behind them and backs Pat up against his bed. He seems so comfortable leading, showing Pat what to do—and Pat’s glad for it, because he’s at a loss, in a trance with how beautiful Brian is and how wonderfully good it feels to kiss and touch him—but he’s not sure what to do next, how to proceed. 

His knees hit the bed, and he sits, and Brian sits next to him, planting their mouths together firmly, rubbing his hand up from Pat’s belly-button to his chest, making him shudder. With this movement, he tugs Pat’s shirt up, exposing his chest, and on autopilot, Pat strips it the rest of the way off, and immediately feels all the more vulnerable for it.

With not much pretense, Pat begins to realize that he’s not—he doesn’t know what to do, now, he’s not sure how to go forward. And when he opens his mouth to try to say something, play it off like he’s cooler than he is, the words he meant _not_ to say come tumbling out: “I’ve never done anything with a man.” _Fuck. Way to go, asshole. _It comes off _real_ shaky, a little quiet, and Pat feels more exposed than ever as he stares down at his own lap, wishing the words he just said away.

Brian pauses, and then looks at him, gently takes Pat’s face in his hands, turning it to connect their gaze; he’s smiling, kind and genuine. “Aw, Pat Gill. I thought so,” he says, leaning forward to peck Pat on the lips real soft and quick. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. We won’t do anything you don’t wanna do.” And then he leans back, considering. “We don’t have to do anything at _all,_ tonight, you know that, right, Pat?” 

And Pat swallows, because, well, _technically_ he knows that, but it’s nice to hear it out loud, anyway. But he _does_ want. He wants bad. “Fuck, Brian, yeah, I know. But like, if you want to do something, we _should,_ because _Goddamn_ I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been—” and Brian laughs, then, a full-bodied one, drapes his leg over Pat’s and pushes him back on the bed, climbing on top confidently. Pat leans up, looking for a kiss, and Brian indulges him, and their mouths move together something desperate, something fast and bruising. Brian’s making these little happy noises into it, almost-moans, and Pat wants to turn them into something real. 

When Brian finally pulls back, his hand tangled into Pat’s hair— and _God_ does it feel good to have the kid’s fingertips scritching at his scalp like that — he looks at Pat with a grin. “Well, how do you want it, then?” he asks, and Pat’s almost immediately ducking his head, blushing. 

_How does it he want it?_ “Jeez, kid, I don’t know,” he admits, and Brian laughs at him, rolling his eyes. “Anything.” 

Brian huffs a sigh out. “Can’t believe you’re making me choose, after I took you home so nicely. What’s a fella gotta do to get a guy with some decisiveness?” he teases, booping Pat on the nose. “But. If you won’t be helpful. I gotta say, darling, I’d love to get my mouth on your cock.” 

As soon as Brian’s said this, Pat sucks in a surprised breath, more of a gasp than anything; the wanton nature of Brian’s voice is intoxicating, alluring, fucking _incredible._ He’s physically and mentally unable to make more words than “_please,_” and so Brian dips his head down to connect their lips quickly before pulling back to trail kisses down Pat’s neck, down, down, down. 

He stops along his crusade to kiss and nip around Pat’s nipples, making his body jerk from under Brian, as the little minx leaves an open-mouthed bite on his chest right below his right nipple. He seems to be enjoying teasing—he’s _great_ at it, no wonder, like Pat’s discovering he is with, well, _everything_—and doesn’t hesitate to drag his tongue down from Pat’s belly-button to the top of his cotton boxer-shorts like he’s from a pin-up magazine. 

Pat’s laying back on Brian’s bed, keeping himself semi-upright with his hands holding himself up, and he feels positively debauched. He can feel the pleasure echoing inside his body like the little metal ball in an overactive arcade pinball machine, jolts of aphrodisia rocketing to the hickeys Brian’s sucked into his neck; to his pert, hard nipples, still wet with Brian’s saliva; to his cock, which twitches when he sees Brian look up at him with sweet, wide eyes. 

Now, his makeup’s even a little messier than when they’d first gotten back to Brian’s apartment. It’s mostly rubbed off, at this point, but Pat’s _more_ than okay with that, because now he can _see_ the flush that naturally rises to the apples of Brian’s cheeks, the bitten-pink natural color of Brian’s lips from underneath the lipstick-rouge, the light brown freckles dancing over Brian’s nose. _Jeez,_ Pat thinks, for the fortieth time of the night, _Brian’s absolutely beautiful. _

Confidently, Brian smirks up at Pat, eyes wide and pretty as he pulls the waistband of Pat’s boxers down to his thighs. It’s almost embarrassing how his cock bobs upwards, red and wet with pre-cum, obviously painfully turned-on. Brian, the little bastard, just laughs, his eyes trained completely on Pat’s length as he licks his lips (_is this man real?_). “Hey, there, old boy,” he says, presumably to Pat’s cock, winking up at Pat as he wraps a lithe hand around the base of Pat’s length, just loose, now. He’s still leaning down, and his body is laid out on the bed in front of Pat in the best way— he can see Brian’s little pert ass, his thighs, the expanse of the back of his legs, the dip and rivets in the base of his back— and his breath is coming out in little hot puffs against Pat’s hip, the phantom of a promise of more. Pat wills his body to calm the _hell_ down, to stay even a _little_ still as Brian gives him a rudimentary stroke upwards, squeezing the head of his cock on the upstroke, his thumb sliding over the wetness at Pat’s slit. "Handsome."

And then Pat watches as Brian shifts his way a little forward, just a little closer, and he can feel that hot breath against his length, making him involuntarily shiver, before he watches Brian’s mouth open, that pink cavern of sweetness, his tongue dipping forward to lick from the very base of Pat’s cock upwards. At the end of this unabashedly teasing gesture, his eyes angled upwards, locked with Pat’s, he closes those sweet lips around the head of Pat’s cock, and sucks. 

It’s almost unbearable, the sharp pleasure, after he’s been hard and teased for so long, but it’s so fucking good, the way he can feel Brian’s tongue pulse just under the head of his cock. He’s still looking up at Pat, and it’s a pretty picture, alright—_jeez you jerk don’t think about framing a photo while your dick’s in his mouth_—but then Brian’s sinking down, and it feels so perfect, and Brian looks so good doing it, his lips wrapped perfectly around Pat’s length, and for a stupidly long moment Pat just feels damn _lucky,_ because he’s one of hundreds of people tonight that have watched Brian’s lips all night.

_Don’t get attached, asshole. Brian’s got much more in his life than you. You’re just a convenient hookup after a night out. _

It’s hard to focus on thinking anything more complicated than _fuck_ when Brian starts bobbing his head, using his hand to grip the base of Pat’s cock to cover and jerk the part he can’t reach, and he looks gorgeous doing it, _hah,_ he’s been gorgeous this whole night—but there’s something undeniably beautiful about this man’s determined nature, the way he goes at things with a single-minded goal and gets it fucking done. To be the subject of that attention, from Brian—well. It’s something powerful, that’s for sure. 

Brian doesn’t let Pat relax, though. He’s still in charge, still leading. He reminds Pat of this by pulling off just to leave sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the side of his length, warm and nice, but not nearly enough—his hips jerk up with every touch of Brian’s hands or mouth, and Brian gets a forearm over his hips and pins them down against his bed, makes him pliant. It’s like his brain short circuits, a bit, then—and he doesn’t have time to dissect why being pinned down makes him feel this floaty and pleasurable before Brian’s clever mouth sinks down again, this time sliding down to where he can feel the head of his cock hit the back of Brian’s throat. 

He gags, then—_it’s a pretty gag,_ Pat thinks, but would never say. It is, though—his eyes get a little teary, watery from the choke, and he recovers and it’s charming and ridiculously sexy how he tries again with almost no time at all, takes Pat’s cockhead between warm soft lips and swirls his tongue around it, makes Pat’s limbs jerk with the feeling. 

Pat’s acutely aware of the noises he’s allowing himself to emit or not emit—but some of his willpower to control them is starting to fade the closer to the brink Brian brings him with that sweet mouth. When Brian looks up at him again through wet eyelashes, Pat’s mouth falls open with words he wasn’t meaning to say. “Oh, _fuck,_ Brian, baby, oh my god. You’re—I was so fucking scared, before, _oh,_ it’s—it’s okay, keep going.” Brian’s eyes flicker up at him, and his mouth is a little slack, like he’s hesitant that Pat’s okay, but Pat tries to gesture frantically that it’s okay, so Brian closes his lips again. “It feels like, fuck, Brian—it feels like baring my fucking soul every time I kiss you but it’s _good,_ it’s so fucking good, oh my _god,_ Brian. I fucking—” Brian sinks down a little lower, and Pat’s words turn into a moan halfway through, deep and rumbling. “I—I want everything with you, anything you’ll fucking give me—” 

Brian pulls back on his cock a bit, suckles at the head, and he opens his mouth a little, the mushroom of Pat’s cock just resting on top of his pink tongue. He’s looking up at Pat with the sweetest doe eyes, and there’s still that faintest hint of tears from when he’d gagged himself trying to take Pat— 

Pat’s _there,_ and it’s _just_ enough, when he brings a hand to his cock to jerk himself quick and easy and knowing and fast, the head of it still just resting in Brian’s sweet mouth. What actually pushes him over the edge is the sight of the corners of Brian’s mouth twitching upwards, then, because it’s fucking _amazing_ to think that he wants this—that this isn’t something that just Pat wants. That Brian wants _him_ too. He moans a little broken when he comes, paints Brian’s tongue white with it, and Brian keeps his mouth open, pliant, patient. Pat’s squeezing the last dribble of come out of the head of his cock when Brian closes his mouth over it and sucks, making Pat jerk out of his skin with sensitivity, but _god_ it’s good, and it pries a grisly groan from deep inside of him when he feels Brian swallow around him. 

When Brian finally pulls off, Pat gets a good handful of his golden curls and tugs him up by his hair to kiss him. It’s a little messy—Brian’s mouth is wet and _oh,_ he tastes _himself_ on Brian’s lips and on his tongue. He hadn’t really thought about that. But when he does think about it, and he licks into Brian’s mouth to catch more of that salty-bitter flavor, he thinks he could—well. He could get to know that taste, that feeling. 

When Pat's muscles are relaxing and his adrenaline is beginning to finally start to wear, he’s surprised to find that though these things are fading, he still finds Brian incredibly attractive in the soft, meek light of morning that’s fading through Brian’s window. His hair is mused and messy and a little sweaty from where Pat had his hand in it while Brian sucked him off, and his lips are reddened from it, his expression flushed and desperate. 

Brian emits this little whimper of a moan, and it’s just a _question,_ an extension to Pat. The front of Brian’s boxers are a little wet with a stain of precum, and Brian’s guiding Pat’s hand to where his cock is hard below the fabric. Pat's movements are automatic and unthinking as he slips his hands under the fabric of Brian’s flannel boxers and tugs them down to Brian’s thighs to wrap a hand around him.

Brian just yelps at this, and dives over to his bedside table to grab a little container of something—Vaseline, Pat realizes, when Brian thrusts it into Pat’s hand and Pat’s a little—he doesn’t _know,_ not _scandalized_, that’s not the right word—he tells himself to stop being an idiot and get _on_ with it, to not get in his head about the most beautiful thing he’s had in quite a while. 

It’s not long after Pat gets his hand slicked with lubricant and wraps a tight hand around Brian that Brian’s close. Brian has no qualms telling Pat what to do—how to stroke him, where to touch him, to kiss and bite his neck. “Right _there, yes,_ fuck, Pat, baby, oh my God.” 

The kid’s wound up, and it’s been a long night, and he’s been hard for so long, Pat can tell Brian’s right on the edge. His eyes are pressed close hard, but Pat watches in wonder as he forces himself to open them, looking at Pat with lidded, heady eyes and watching him, looking at him, and— “God, Brian, you’re so _fucking_ gorgeous.” 

Brian screams when he comes, which Pat guesses he should have suspected, but it still makes him jump. He keeps his hand steady, though, luckily, keeps jerking Brian through it, until Brian’s arching away from his touch, and he gets the idea, removes his hand gently.

When Brian’s recovering, flopped on his back with come all over his chest and stomach, his eyes pressed close and his mouth still twitching with orgasm—unfairly beautiful, even and especially when he’s sex-debauched—Pat leans off of the bed to grab his undershirt to wipe Brian’s chest off with. Though it’s not the cleanest aftercare Pat’s ever performed, Brian opens both his eyes, still a little sex-drunk, but sweet, and his gaze connects with Pat’s as Pat wipes his chest off gently. It’s tender and sweet and lingering and more vulnerable than Pat remembers ever feeling after sex. 

Brian’s already slipping into sleep when Pat settles against him again. Pat falls asleep strangely easy, his head draped over Brian’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. 

**1928: One Year Later**

It’s cold outside and it’s the morning after one of Brian’s bigger performances, so naturally, both Brian and Pat are sleeping, curled into each other in their shared bed. Their room is decorated—_plastered!_ Legs exclaimed, when she came over to visit—in photographs of Pat’s. Brian really likes them, or maybe he likes just flattering Pat, making him smile, but Pat tries not to argue too much whenever Brian insists he frame and hang another of his photos. It’s not just their room, either; everywhere in their small nook of a Manhattan apartment is covered in hanging photos; not even the Frigidaire is safe from the draft copies of photos that are objectively not very good, but Brian thinks look artsy, so he hung them up with magnets. 

Pat’s favorite thing hanging up in their apartment, though, by far, is the newspaper that Brian saved from so long ago, cut out and framed proudly. It’s an advertisement for Pat’s photography, with that little photo of him smiling, and it’s circled in thick, black sharpie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> the best way you can thank me is with a comment :D
> 
> we love lurkers in this household! comment moderation is on so that lurkers can leave comments and indicate they shouldn't be posted!
> 
> you can find me on twitter @peasretweet : )
> 
> ps: i did a lot of procrastination/research while writing this fic, so here's a list of my favorite 1920s slang terms for penis: 
> 
> majesty  
sweetener  
redcap  
bobble-whacker  
axe  
nightstick  
gospel-pipe  
Tootsie Roll  
soupbone  
hambone  
old boy
> 
> edit as of 10/21/19 i'm most likely going to add more to this fic in the same universe! it will most likely be posted as a separate fic in the same "series" as this fic. so get excited! more 20s patbri to come owo !! and i'm going to be writing it with @spacegirl, my love! <3

**Author's Note:**

> plz leave comments : ) 
> 
> i'm @peasretweet on twitter! come hang


End file.
